


Show Me Your Gods

by BroltaAMaga



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 12:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroltaAMaga/pseuds/BroltaAMaga
Summary: If there's a hell, I'm slated for it for this one. *devilish laugh*A mysterious norseman (we never learn his name, but he looks and acts suspiciously like Halfdan the Black) seduces a young Christian missionary in the Borgund Stave Church in Norway. I have to stretch time a little here, but go with me. I prob should have cut it into two parts but oh well. :DThese churches, built in the 12th century as Christianity slowly took over are a fascinating blend of Norse/pagan imagery and Christianity. More here:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borgund_Stave_ChurchWARNINGS: 18+ NSFW Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, knife play, memory of rape, total disrespect for Christianity, Half-shaved head smutJust a suggestion: I can't read this without Hozier's "Take Me to Church" in the background...





	Show Me Your Gods

You tried to keep your mind on your work but the the heat in the church was stifling and the smell of the fresh cut pine boards and staves was dizzying. As you swept, you sweated and were grateful you were almost done. Sweat ran into your eyes then and as you pushed your hair back off your forehead, you looked up and sighed.

It really was beautiful, you had to admit. Borgund was by far the finest built of the other churches you and your band of missionaries had visited over the past year. The twelve staves, round pine posts that created the central nave soared above you into the other two naves, the space only be broken up by the second story gallery which was braced by crisscrossing Xs called St. Andrews Crosses. Although you wished it had larger windows for more airflow right now, you took comfort in its solidity and knew its beauty would be here for ages to come.

 

As you began sweeping again, you were glad the Bishop Blaxton that was leading your group couldn’t hear your thoughts. You could hear him now as he’d said earlier when another missionary had praised its beauty as you crested the hill yesterday into town; “Pshhh! It’s just wood harvested from a heathen country, embellished with heathen carvings made by heathen hands. All that matters is the word of God we are bringing to these people and I could do that in a barn.”

 

Your entire body had prickled at the word barn for that was where he often cornered you when his lust for earthly pleasures and cruelty overcame him. You had to swallow the bile that rose in your thought of him bending you over endless hay bales. It wasn’t even the fact he barely washed, his greasy strings of black hair always plastered to his balding head, it was also the utter hypocrisy in his soul. He’d ravage you one Saturday night and the next morning extoll on the abhorrent nature of lasciviousness and loose morals to the blindly nodding congregation. His eyes would focus and glare upon you as he spouted the words sin and hell and your hatred burned hotter for him.

Just last night he’d given the blessing at dinner, longly thanking God for the grace to lead these heathen Norsemen to the light of Jesus, and as everyone’s eyes were closed in thankfulness, had slid his hand over your thighs, split them and fingered you under the table. Your cheeks burned at the memory, you swept the broom over exaggeratedly, angrily and then stopped, confused as the broom hit something solid that skittered off into the shadows with a series of metallic clinks. It was very dark in the covered arcade under the gallery and you went to your knees and felt around with your fingers. A knife! You leaned back onto your knees and brought it to your lap, turning it over in your hands.

It was nearly as long as your forearm, the blade glinting in the small bit of light that did filter through the open door. The handle was light wood, carved, and the deep marks then burned slightly to make them stand out. You traced one of the marks with a finger, a strange symbol, certainly pagan, but you felt your heart thrill at it, rather than recoil.

 

You didn’t hear the man enter, you didn’t feel him stare at you for a good minute, leaning up against the first stave while you were entranced with the knife. It was only when he chose to come stand over you and his shadow darkened over you that you gasped, dropped the knife and looked up. Even though you could smell Bishop Blaxton from a hundred yards, you’d assumed it was him coming in to get you for the evening meal.

Instead it was someone that was supposed to be more terrifying from all the stories you’d heard, but was actually as beautiful and enchanting as the knife you’d dropped. Your eyes traveled from his boots, over his black leather pants, his blue tunic that graced his lithe warrior body, and was cinched with a carved belt and adorned with gold clasps…the blond swathe of golden hair that covered half his face…and oh! His face! You crossed yourself subconsciously at his swirling facial tattoos and then blushed and looked down at the disapproving look that he shot you.

 

“You’re going to need more than a silly hand movement if I wanted to hurt you.”

“Do you?” you squeaked and felt your tense muscles loosen at his small smile and the flicker of kindness in his eyes. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you and and you had the strange feeling he didn’t offer that kindness to many. The realization he was a fearsome heathen killer should have spiked fear into your heart, but his sweet smile strangely warmed you to him. He shifted his eyes to the knife then back to you.

“That’s mine.”

You stood then, brushed off your dress, bent and picked it up.

“It’s beautiful,” you said as you handed it to him, and his blue eyes held yours so intimately for a moment, you looked down immediately again. They were uncontrollably drawn back up though and he smirked at you. 

“Your Bishop wouldn’t like to hear you praising heathen handiwork,” he teased with that small smile again and your only thought was that the Bishop wouldn’t be pleased to know what this man in front of you was doing to your body right now either. A heat was growing under your skirts, one that now had nothing to do with the weather outside of the stifling church, but rather everything with the heathen in it. You swallowed hard, but straightened your shoulders with repulsion of the Bishop.

“ I don’t care what he thinks of me or anything for that matter.” You spat it out and were shocked at your strength.

The Norseman perked up his eyebrows at that, shocked maybe or intrigued by your boldness and defiance of the man. 

He collected himself and leaned casually then against one of the staves, brushed it with a hand and taking the blade of the knife between his fingertips, began scratching casually into the virgin wood. Your eyes widened. He was carving heathen symbols right. into. the. church.

“And what of the words he preaches?” he continued.

You swallowed again. You didn’t have the hatred for Jesus or God that you held for Blaxton, but you didn’t have a deep connection to them either. The Norseman sensed your hesitation and turned his entire body to face you. His eyes traveled over your form and you felt, your thighs and between your breasts in particular, slick with fresh sweat and your breath catch in your throat.

He finished his carving and blew the sawdust out of it, ran a finger over it. You leaned slightly forward and saw it was a line with a triangle near the top, almost like a flag, like the letter P. Wasn’t he afraid of getting in trouble?

 

“No, I…” you tried to protest, but then weren’t exactly sure what you were defending, your religion or yourself, so it trailed off lamely. You glanced over at the carving.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get caught, get in trouble for that?”

He shrugged, his one visible eye glinting mischievously.

“I know where I’m going and who will welcome me.” With that he took a step towards you.

The idea simply yet thoroughly sent a pulse through you. He was doing something against the law, against the church so blatantly and he was celebrating it, knew somehow he’d be welcomed into the fold of his kin in their afterlife for what he’d done. He saw the tingle of rebellion he sparked in you in your eyes and you sucked in your breath as he took another step towards you, your bellies almost touching now.

Before you had a chance to move, his knife came up to your neck and then you flinched, but only barely as your blood ran as cold as the fjord in January. He’d tricked you with that smile, the earlier tenderness and now was going to slaughter you, slicing you wide and your blood would run between the staves. Your feet were locked in place and you could only close your eyes waiting for sure death.

But it never came. Your eyes flew open in surprise and as the Norseman reached out for you and the look in his eyes was so tender and wanting, your held breath came out in a short, relieved chuckle.

He smiled back, took a small lock of your hair in his fingers and you cocked your head at him. With a quick snick of his knife he cut your hair. When he held it up, you saw a few beads of glistening pine sap on it.

“The church is so new, it’s still dripping. If you leave it, it will tangle,” he explained and your mouth curved into a surprised “oh” as you realized you weren’t about to die and noticed in a daze that as he tucked the knife into his belt, he also slipped your hair into a small purse there.

He reached for you again, this time stroking your face. His hands were rough, but his touch so gentle and caring, you melted under it anyway.

“Why don’t you believe in your god?” He whispered as his hand slid around your waist, pulled, and he closed the small space between you. When your hips pressed against his, you sucked in your breath.

“I, I wish I could,” you stammered. “I just don’t like the way he makes me feel for things I can’t control.”

“Things that are natural?” he breathed, leaning his half covered face into your neck. You felt his warm breath there once, then twice as he inhaled and exhaled close to you before feeling his lips kiss the skin over and over. You knew he was misunderstanding but your brain swum in the new sensations and you struggled to surface, to stay sane.

“Well yes that too, but I meant for me, things that HAPPEN to me, things I have no say in.”

 

The Norseman understood and he pulled himself away from you, hands at his sides, lips no longer brushing their sweet touch against you. The small space between you was created again and felt like a gaping chasm of miles. Your body amazed you then by aching to close it once more. You watched, dazed as your arms reached for him, palms grasping his shoulders and pulling him slowly back against you. He smiled and you returned it as his mouth went again to the hollow in your throat.

You picked up the conversation right where it had left off.

“And yes, my God thinks all things essentially natural, things between men and women, should and must be controlled, only allowed in certain circumstances and for certain reasons.”

“Marriage and children?” he asked, his lips moving across your skin and his hands traveling up your ribs to your breasts. You nodded.

“And what of pleasure?” he asked and you sucked in your breath at the sound of the word in his deep voice.

“I wouldn’t know of it.”

A low growl escaped him at that and a strong surge of urgency seemed to rush through him as he pulled you tighter, kissed you harder, breathed more raggedly. You tossed your head back, the crosses of St. Andrew the last thing you saw before you closed your eyes at the gorgeous sensation of being in this man’s wanting grasp.

He unbuckled his belt then, slipped his shirt off and your eyes widened at the blue-green tattoos that spread over his shoulders and chest. You reached for them, your fingers drawn to them and you swirled your fingertips over them.

The Norseman sniffed in a hard breath at your touch, then took your hands and sunk to the ground, pulling you with him, your heads at the base of the altar. He pulled you down to him, but then rolled over you in one smooth motion. You crooked up one knee and he settled his hips against yours, wedging himself perfectly into the created crevice. Even through his pants and your thick skirts you could feel him and his arousal. As bare as you desperately wanted him, the added pressure and teasing thickness of your clothing was a lovely obstacle, for now.

The Norseman’s need for your skin, needing you stark before him was greater though and when he hand reached between you, his hand soon pushed somewhat frustrated through your skirts.

“Why do you people make it so hard to reach your women?!” His criticism of your homeland put you on the defensive, even though you’d never felt particularly proud of it. “Maybe because they think we’re more of a treasure?” you spit back. He stopped scrabbling his rough hands through your clothing at that, brushed the blond lock of hair out of his eyes so he could stare you down with both eyes. You gulp. You’ve offended him. Your breath stuttered as you inhaled sharply. He’s angry and the knife glints on the ground, near his hand, near your belly. “We think our women are treasures too. We just want to worship them sooner, without all the-” he waves his hand at your skirts “fuss.”

 

At that, he shoved up your dress, grabbed the knife then and there was a tearing sound as he sliced through your underskirts, baring you to him.

All the heat that had built under there, from the work in the summer day and his touch was released then, and while you certainly weren’t chilly now, your nakedness and his eyes upon it, somehow stemmed the shimmering waves of building heat, held it steady in the stagnant air.

It wasn’t long before it was set ablaze again however as the Norseman descended upon the newly unconcealed area. His hands went to your hips, grabbing them hard with his thumbs kneading your hip bones, pulling you harder to him, as he put his mouth on you. You stared up at the high, peaked ceiling, the smooth, light pine boards being the only thing between you and God and knew if it was real, if it were all true, you were slated for hell for this moment. 

 

Well, you thought, if you were going to end up in hell you might as well earn it. You moaned, pushed your core harder against his mouth.

“Show me _your_ gods,” you breathed desperately at the image of yourself in eternal hellfire. “Show me you,” you begged as his tongue lapped against you and your thighs quivered beneath his forearms. He moaned against you at that, increased his speed and pressure and you nearly shrieked at the pleasure of it. Just when you started to think you were going to lose consciousness, started feeling like the earth was falling out from underneath you, he quit, pulled back and chuckled at your whine. He kissed your inner thigh and gave it a squeeze.

“Don’t worry, my treasure. There’s more of that to come.” He leaned back down to your waist, but this time kissed your belly.

You absolutely shook beneath him as his tongue glided across to your hip. “So you want to know my gods.” You whimpered in response, “Mmmhmmm” and he nipped the soft skin on your side. “That’s Loki, he’s the mischievous… troublemaker…” you moaned as he nipped you again.

"Ohhh, I like Loki,” you sighed. The Norseman chuckled into your hipbone at that, stroked a hand under you, squeezed your cheek and you pressed into the chapel floor, reveling in the sensation of his grip spreading you more to him. The smack on the side of your hip then made you squeal and you glanced down at him. “Loki, again,” he explained with a shrug and a smirk.

Then he laid his torso along your right leg, rested his head on your ribs then, trailed his palm up your thigh.

“Odin is the AllFather, the god of gods. His hand is everywhere, in all things.” His palm stopped on your stomach, pressed firmly against your womb. “He sends out his ravens, Hugin and Munin every day to help him in his quest for knowledge,” he dragged two widely split fingers over across your pelvis then down to where your legs met, then through the soft curls there, joining them together and circling twice just as birds would, over a small spot near the top. Your breath hitched, your hips arched. 

He continued. “He seeks knowing above all, wants to know all. He NEEDS knowledge of things,” and with that the Norseman slipped the two raven fingers inside of you, explored the dark of you.

 

You shuddered against him, noticing how with every push of his fingers he seemed to be stroking some patch within you, one you couldn’t have imagined the existence of if you’d tried. Odin was certainly here in this church with the both of you, showing you the pleasure in seeking, in knowing and without allowing a shred of guilt.

You wanted this man to know more of you, all of you then, and something in your whimper, your bucking hips helped him to see that as he pulled his fingers from you.

You begged then, unabashedly, hands pulling at what remained of your dress. The Norseman slid the sharp knife through the cloth as if it were water, exposing your breasts and the rest of you. You pulled your arms free and reached for him, one hand instinctively delving into his crotch and he leaned on all fours above you. As you palmed the length of him, his eyes rolled back into his head with pleasure, that swatch of his hair deliciously hiding one from you. A few more strokes and he couldn’t take it anymore. He reached down, untied his pants and shuffled them down just below his ass. You enjoyed that he was so desperate for you he couldn’t even manage to completely undress but you wanted to him to be as naked as you were, to fully join and you reached down and tugged on them more, to show your desire. He smiled, used his heels to kick off his boots awkwardly, but then deftly slid out of the rest of his pants.

He lowered himself onto you, your legs naturally parting for him as he aligned his body with yours and it struck you how natural and human this was, how your God had been so deeply wrong to attach any guilt to it, especially when it was so desired by both participants.

He didn’t enter you yet, just slid beautifully along your entrance once and kissed you deeply, the first time he had. With his hands in your hair and the taste of yourself now mingled in your mouth, you felt your body go somehow watery and aflame together.

 

“Back to our lesson?” he asked, pulling onto his forearms and murmuring as he tucked your hair behind your ears. You nodded, rolling your hips against his not knowing how much longer you could go without him filling you. The Norseman rolled back but seemed to have greater control over his lust and continued with his story.

“Like I said, Odin desired knowledge above all and one day he went to Mímir, another god known for being wise. Odin asked Mímir if he could drink from his well, the well of Urd, at the base of Yggdrasil, the world-tree and the source of all that wisdom.”

Your head danced at all the beautiful imagery along with the sensations this man was kindling in your body. Nothing in the Bible had ever stirred your blood like this, not even close. Your hands slid up his back, scratching lightly but firmly.

“but Mímir, knew the value of such a thing said no at first, but then they agreed on a sacrifice. Odin gave his eye, dropped it in the well and then Mímir knew he had to comply.”

Your thirst for knowledge and the acceptance of his gods was great, but so was your need for this man above you and you reached around, slid your palms along the sides of his ass and then grabbed it, pushed. He flattened his chest against you a bit, arching his back away from you slightly, and reached down between you with one hand.

“Mímir dipped into the deep well,” he continued, sliding within you at that and you gasped, arcing your neck backwards on the stone floor. He turned his head to the side, momentarily rendered speechless by the feeling of your close walls accepting the length of him. As you yielded to but enveloped him at the same time, he groaned. His breath became more labored as he tried to continue. You would have smiled if it weren’t for your own desire forcing your mouth into another moan.

“And he gave Odin his w-wisdom, showed, sh-shared all he knew,” The man was nearly panting now, savoring the sensations growing where you were joined. You worried for a moment he might finish too quickly, you not getting to ease the ache in your belly nor hear of any more gods.

But he swallowed hard then, and as your bodies slid together, finding their rhythm, the first shocking sensations slowed a bit and he gathered his breath to tell you more.

“Thor is our strongest god,” and at that he smiled and thrust harder into you, once out of rhythm, making you suck in your breath and let out a strange half chuckle that turned into a moan. “When his hammer, Mjölnir, slays giants, we see lightning.” The Norseman slowed again, burying his face into your neck, his hands stroking your sides, and you felt with every instinctual roll of your hips how the ache in your center flickered like sparks catching in dry grass. “He’s married to Sif, whose long golden hair is like ripe grain,” he breathed into your own dark blond hair. 

“As she is an earth goddess and he’s a sky god, we ask them both for a fruitful harvest, which is the union of-Ah!“ you’d rolled your hips extra firmly against his as a first teasing flame of your release shot through you, and he’d gasped, his hands suddenly trying to regain control, one planting itself on the ground and the other reaching down to slow your hips. You couldn’t hold back any longer though and ground back against his hand, moaning . He growled at that, pushed you hard into the floor with his hips but could barely contain you as your neared your peak. 

He gave into you, hips went from slipping slowly into harder, deeper thrusts. As your vision went black and those sparks of pleasure radiated out like a crackling fire through your extremities, he kept telling you the story of Thor and you gaped that he was still able to form words and you to understand them. His words sent you over the brink.

“They’re the a union of a sky god and an earth goddess. When they come together, he impregnates her earth with rain and sun and we are fed.”

The inferno blazed through you at that and you pulled him hard against you, crushed his mouth with a kiss so you wouldn’t bring the entire town running with your screams. The Norseman moaned against your kiss, and as you felt his hips stutter against you, as he lost himself in you, you lost track of time and space. Your entire being became nothing but sensation and summit, until it blissfully dissolved like an avalanche around you and you were able to see and exist again, back on the floor of the Borgund Stavkyrkje.

You shuddered together for a moment and when he rolled off you, you naturally curled up against one another. Tattooed chest heaving, he pulled your head closer onto his chest and you smiled hearing his heart beat racing within. You struggled to wet your mouth enough to speak but whispered "If we got caught now, I think they’d overlook the carving all together and just burn us both alive." He chuckled into your hair. 

“Yeah, we marked this one good, real good.” He breathed huskily as he recovered. “Know any others nearby?” he joked, quirking up an eyebrow at you. You smiled, pulled him closer and kissed his temple. "Hey, what does the symbol mean that you carved earlier?”

His eyes now closed, the Norseman smiled. “Wunjo. Ecstasy.”


End file.
